


Up on the Roof

by Lexalicious70



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Birthday Party, Birthday Presents, Fluff, M/M, Quentin is anxious again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 19:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11561874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexalicious70/pseuds/Lexalicious70
Summary: It’s Quentin’s 23d birthday and Eliot has pulled out all the stops for him, but underneath it all, what Quentin really wants for his special day is the bigger surprise.





	Up on the Roof

**Author's Note:**

> Did you really think I wasn’t going to celebrate Quentin Coldwater’s birthday? Happy birthday, jellybean! I don’t own The Magicians, this is just for fun. Comments and Kudos are magic! Enjoy.

Up on the Roof

By Lexalicious70

 

Quentin hadn’t planned to spend the evening of his 23d birthday locked in the upstairs bathroom of the Physical Kids Cottage, but like so many other things in his life, it had rolled up on him and then just kept on rolling, until he felt like he’d been assaulted by a particularly aggressive steamroller.

 

Downstairs, the party—his party—went on without him. He could hear alcohol-fueled laughter and the crackly, snapping sounds of flashy party spells over whatever bass-thumping music Margo had put on. Quentin knew they meant well and that she and Eliot in particular loved having a good time, but the amount of people crammed into the cottage, along with all the sounds, smells, and anxiety that came with it, had driven Quentin upstairs and behind closed doors, where he was juggling a shitload of free-floating anxiety and the effects of Eliot’s ability to mix drinks. He leaned his back against the closed toilet and wondered how hard it would be to navigate the packed hallway to his room.

 

Someone knocked on the door but Quentin ignored it. People had been knocking on it almost constantly since he’d locked himself in, but then Eliot’s voice reached him through it.

 

“Quentin? Are you in there?”

 

Quentin closed his eyes. He’d been ignoring everyone else, but he could no more ignore Eliot Waugh than he could ignore the beating of his own heart.

 

“Yeah, El, I’m—it’s me, I’m fine!” How had Eliot realized he’d left the common area when it was packed to capacity with people?

 

“Then come out!”

 

“I will . . . in a minute!”

 

The doorknob rattled.

 

“Quentin?” A pause, and then the lock gave a loud _ping_ as it bent under the will of Eliot’s magic. Quentin rested his chin on his drawn-up knees and sighed. The door opened a few inches and Eliot looked in.

 

“What the hell is going on?” He frowned and then slipped inside, glancing over his shoulder at the knot of people who complained loudly. “There’s two bathrooms downstairs, and if I catch any of you urinating outside within ten feet of this cottage, I will turn you all into cockroaches!” He slammed the door and leaned against it to peer down at Quentin.

 

“You went AWOL from the very lovely party I’m throwing for you.” He said, and Quentin nodded.

 

“Yeah, I guess I did . . . I’m sorry, El.”

Eliot watched him for a long moment, his amber eyes ticking over Quentin’s form.

 

“Actually, I don’t think you should be the one apologizing—can you get up off the floor and away from the toilet?” Eliot tugged him up and Quentin turned away once he was on his feet, his hands tucked up under his arms. Eliot went over to the window and worked some magic on it until it was big enough to climb through and waved Quentin toward it. “Come on . . . out with you.”

 

“Out the window?” Quentin asked, and Eliot rolled his eyes.

 

“Yes, Quentin, the slope isn’t steep at all on this side! Shoo!” Eliot flapped his hands at Quentin until he turned and climbed out. Eliot followed with what Quentin knew was more grace than he’d displayed. The roof had a gentle pitch that was almost level at this side of the cottage and Eliot sat down as he reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. He offered one to Quentin, who shook his head. The tip of the cigarette flared to life without a lighter, and then Eliot blew out a rich plume of smoke. The sound of the party was still audible but robbed of its claustrophobic aura, and Quentin relaxed. Eliot glanced at him.

 

“This party . . . it was a terrible idea, wasn’t it.”

 

“What?” Quentin turned to him. “El, no! It’s a great party! It is!”

 

“Then why did you run away from it?” Eliot asked, taking another drag of his cigarette. Quentin leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

 

“It’s not the party. It’s me. I . . . I’m not good with crowds and noise . . . even if it is something fun like this. I was the same way at Columbia. Julia and James would take me to these parties to meet people—they were always worried that I never had enough friends—and I’d end up just sitting in a corner because I couldn’t relate to anyone and because the music was too loud and all I wanted to do was go back to my room where it was quiet. God . . . I’m sorry, I know I sound like a loser!”

 

“No. You don’t, Quentin. You sound like someone with severe social anxiety. I suppose I even knew that about you, but I thought because you were here at Brakebills it might be different. But it’s not the venue. It’s what’s up here.” Eliot tapped his own head and Quentin looked up at him.

 

“You sound like you might know what it feels like.”

 

“I do.” Eliot nods. “But because of the way my own mind is wired, I’m forced to battle what frightens me. I’m constantly out of my comfort zone because I thought if I worked hard enough to become a consummate entertainer, I would overcome the desire to isolate myself.”

 

“And you did.” Quentin nodded. “Guess that means you’re a lot stronger than I am.”

 

“I don’t think it has anything to do with strength, Quentin.” Eliot lit another cigarette from the butt of the first and then made the butt vanish. “In fact, your way might even be better.”

 

“How’s that?”

 

“Forcing myself to face it comes with a price. And . . . well. You might have noticed that sometimes I overindulge.”

 

“I’ve noticed. And I worry about you sometimes, El.”

 

“That’s very sweet of you.”

 

Silence stretched out as they sat looking up at the stars, their shoulders almost touching.

 

“I baked you a cake too, you know.” Eliot said after a moment, and Quentin felt his chest fill with guilt.

 

“I’m—s”

 

“I didn’t tell you so you’d apologize!” Eliot said, peering at Quentin through a haze of smoke. “I wanted—oh hell. Wait right here.” Eliot climbed back through the window, leaving Quentin to watch his peers stagger in and out of the cottage below. Several of them were passed out in the chaise lounges Eliot kept on the side lawn.

 

“Here we are.”

 

Quentin turned to see Eliot climbing back through the window. A plate with a large slice of cake floated in front of him. He came to sit beside Quentin again as the plate settled in front of them. The top and sides were neatly and cleverly scalloped with what looked like mocha icing. The cake underneath was rich, almost black.

 

“Won’t everyone notice you cut the cake without me there?” He asked, and Eliot grinned a little.

 

“Most of our guests have forgotten what planet they’re on, much less remember that it’s a birthday party.” Eliot pulled a pack of multicolored candles from his pocket and stuck them in the cake in the shape of a two and a three. “And I baked you a cake so you could make your birthday wish.”

 

“You believe in wishes?” Quentin smiled, and Eliot pressed his fingers together lightly and then snapped them in a brisk motion. The candles flared to life.

 

“If magic is real, then why can’t birthday wishes be?” Eliot shifted a bit closer and Quentin felt his skin flush for reasons that had nothing to do with the heat of the candles.

 

“What should I wish for?” He asked, and Eliot stared down at the flickering flames.

 

“Well . . . a wise man once said that you have only two birthdays in your life—the day you’re born and the day you discover who you were meant to be. Have you had your other birthday yet, Quentin?”

 

“I don’t think so.” Quentin replied. “I mean . . . I thought I did, when I came here and I found out magic was real. I want to be a magician, but there’s something else I want to be even more.”

 

“And what’s that?”

 

Quentin turned his head as Eliot faced him to speak. Even sitting down, Quentin found that he had to look up to meet his eyes, dark and liquid in the light from the candles.

 

“I . . . I want to be the person you care about—uhm—I want . . . I want to—to—” He gestured furiously as he watched Eliot’s expression grow incredulous. “I want—this, El! Just—us, together! I don’t need a party! All I need is to be with you, and I guess I’ve known it since the moment I stepped into Brakebills and saw you there waiting for me and—and. That’s my wish.” Quentin leaned forward, blew out the candles, and sat back, waiting for Eliot to cast him out of his life and possibly off the cottage roof. He squeezed his eyes shut, and then Eliot’s long fingers were cupping his chin, raising his head. He opened his eyes to see Eliot’s face only inches from his own.

 

“Even before I knew magic was real, I always believed that if any wish you made came true, it should be your birthday wish. And in this case, since I’m the one who can make it come true, then I will happy to oblige you, Quentin Coldwater.” Eliot’s dark head dipped down and Quentin gasped as their lips pressed together, Eliot’s coaxing and Quentin’s trembling but warm. Eliot slipped a hand the back of Quentin’s neck and Quentin felt goosebumps bloom down his spine as his fingers brushed against the underside of his hair. Smoke from the candles curled up around their faces, and then Eliot pulled back. Quentin missed the taste of his mouth immediately, even though his brain was jammed and stuttering.

 

“You—you mean you feel—you want . . .” He gestured, and Eliot ran two fingers along the side of the cake. He sucked his index finger clean, and then offered the other one to Quentin. After a few moments of stroke-inducing panic, Quentin took the plunge and sucked the long finger into his mouth to clean off the icing. Eliot watched, his amber eyes hooded, before pulling his finger back.

 

“I hope that answers your question, Quentin.” He said, pulling two forks from the inside of his vest. He used one to cut the large slice of cake in half and handed Quentin the other fork. Quentin dipped it down and took a bite—chocolate mocha bliss.

 

“Oh my God, this is amazing.” He groaned, and Eliot took a bite of his own.

 

“It came out all right.” He allowed. Downstairs, the noise from the party dwindled as the moon rose. Soon Quentin’s plate was empty and he set the fork down. Eliot took out his pocketwatch and glanced at the time.

 

“It’s well after midnight.” He glanced down at the plate and arranged the forks side by side. “Did you have a good birthday? Despite the party?” He asked, and Quentin smiled as he took Eliot’s hand and leaned against his tall, reassuring frame.

 

“Better than I ever could have wished, El.”

 

FIN

 

 


End file.
